


The Happiest

by heyfrenchfreudiana



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Author regrets nothing, Birthday Sex, Birthday Smut, Developing Relationship, F/M, Feels, Fourth of July, Friendship/Love, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Porn With Feels, Possibly OOC, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, cheese and fireworks, hinted threesome but it's not real, ode to steve's dick, steve's birthday, steve/natasha/steve's dick are my ot3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 03:36:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4289223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyfrenchfreudiana/pseuds/heyfrenchfreudiana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weeeelllll. I had intended on writing a Birthday sex fic. And then this happened. </p><p>Natasha needs a roommate. Steve needs a place to stay. Natasha falls in love with Steve. And then proceeds to angst all over the place because of miscommunication and her neverending inability to use her words and communicate her feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Happiest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spanglecap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spanglecap/gifts), [heyfrenchfreudiana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyfrenchfreudiana/gifts).



> This fic is so damned AU, it's not even funny. Suspend belief because actually, it is one of my favorites. It took way longer than I thought it would, and it ended differently than I planned, but:  
> a)I love this OTP  
> b)I love Steve and his dick so fucking much and  
> c) I really really don't hate Sharon Carter. She's just such an easy target.  
> d) you know, I always panic about OOC but I don't even care. It's beautiful.  
> e)Alexi is canon as Natasha's brother according to the Marvel Children's storybook so ehhh.
> 
> gifted to myself because reasons. (yeah, I did it. treat yo' self)  
> gifted to spanglecap because more reasons. <3 <3 <3

***

If anyone ever asked, she could pinpoint the exact moment that she’d realized she was in love with him. It was black and white, in a sense, because though Natasha Romanoff had been fond of her roommate (and could definitely say that she found him physically attractive), she didn’t think she would ever have admitted to being in love with him. Hopelessly, chemically-stupid, faulty-decisioned, butterfly-in-stomach, every-song-is-about-you love.

Of course, until she was.

Even in the minutes before it happened, she would have brushed the thought of love off. Impossible and she could list the reasons why, starting with the fact that Steve Rogers was a friend in addition to the business of splitting the rent check with her every month. And ending with the fact that he was unavailable, that he was already in a relationship with someone (someone that Natasha _liked_ ), and as much as Natasha didn’t play by the rules, she definitely wasn’t a homewrecker.

Things would have been fine. She would have managed just fine, until she was in the kitchen bleeding over the sink while Steve calmly applied pressure and gauze to her palm, and she was looking into his eyes. Because then she’d stopped breathing altogether. Because it was like the gears of a malfunctioning clock that had suddenly clicked into place. One minute she was cutting up watermelon while he lit citronella candles outside for the Cinco de Mayo barbeque they’d decided to host in their apartment, and the next she was standing weak-kneed against him, with one clear thought.

_Fuck._

As in, “ _Fuck, my hand._ ”

As in, “ _Fuck, I’m in love with him_.”

“You ok, Romanoff?” he’d checked in with her as he applied pressure, his face betraying a sincere concern. “You wanna sit down for a second?”

“No, it’s fine. I’m good,” she shook her head and kicked herself, because honestly, a little blood was seriously not that big of a deal. Except that she’d never noticed the way his eyes shifted shades of blue before, never noticed the pout of his mouth. It was a problem. He smoothed the tape down around her bandage, the pad of his thumb along her palm enough to make her stomach do flip-flops, and then there it was (there her feelings were), as clear as day.

A goddamn problem.

She pulled her hand back suddenly, hugging it to her chest like a poker hand she didn’t want to give away.

“Hurts?”

Natasha nodded weakly, because her hand would be the best cover for what was really going on. “Yeah. I’m sure I’ll be fine. But we should probably start the grill or something.”

If nothing else, Natasha was a master deflector because Steve only furrowed his brows for a second before relenting and opening the junk drawer for their box of matches.

The party, to her relief, went forward without problems. Everyone happy to drink margaritas and Coronas and eat guacamole, the same expected chatter as usual with the only thing different being Natasha’s own inward and hidden change. On the surface, she’d been able to maintain conversations about work and relationships with the girls, as though watching him in the corner of her eye while his girlfriend cuddled him from behind or while he listened to one of the guys talk about microbrews wasn’t suddenly fucking painful and certainly worse than the flesh wound on her hand.

And when she held her palm that night, staring at the ceiling as she reviewed and double-checked her feelings, the problem of being in love with Steve only grew larger and more insurmountable. Because at the end of the day, they’d grown close enough that she didn’t really want to lose him or his friendship. What else could she do? Move out? It would be a dick move, putting them both in awkward financial positions. For the time being and until she could convince herself otherwise, she was trapped. She loved him and was hopeful that at least in an alternate universe they’d probably be the perfect couple. But in this universe, she’d have to settle.

A good friend and nothing more, or nothing at all.

***

When she’d first met him, her only thought had been one of relief.

Natasha had never placed an ad online before, not even to sell an old piece of furniture let alone to solicit a roommate, and the process had been more tedious and exhausting than she would have preferred. All she wanted, as specified in the ad, was someone to share the rent on her apartment with. There really wasn’t any way she could have stayed afloat otherwise, not paying market prices on her two-bedroom, two-bath in Huntington Beach. Not unless she was prepared to add at least a waitressing gig and something else to her current teaching job. No thank you, because trying to get stressed out college kids to memorize Russian conjugation charts was exhausting enough.

So she’d placed an ad. And interviewed a few nice-enough girls who hadn’t been able to commit, in between more than enough dick pics because that’s exactly what someone sends in response to a “roommate wanted” apparently. Getting an email from [srogers@hmail.com](mailto:srogers@hmail.com) was like a breath of fresh air.

_I just moved to town and am interested in moving in as soon as you have the space available. Let me know if you’d like to meet to discuss._

A few emails later and he seemed to fit the short-list for safe requirements. Non-smoking, gainfully employed, didn’t know enough people to carry drama. He’d just arrived from the East Coast, newly hired as the Creative Director for a production company out of Irvine.

_(“What kind? Video games? TV?”_

_“Film…” he’d given a slight grimace, “though I don’t think they’ve made anything too famous.”)_

Not that Natasha really cared, because her place seemed to fit his needs as much as her own.

“You think it won’t be weird living with a dude?” a colleague had asked her over lunch, in between forkfuls of a Caesar salad that they’d agreed to share.

“How so?” She’d shrugged. “It’s not like we’d be interacting or anything. And he seems like a nice, quiet guy.”

Which was the honest truth. When they’d met at the diner/bakery down the street, he’d come off so normal. Literally blond and blue-eyed, like the stereotypical Midwestern farmboy who comes to the city to make it big, even though he was supposedly from New York. As though he wore the “I’m not from around here” on his sleeve, just as obvious as his khaki-and-flannel dress or the way he insisted on paying for her tea. She’d rolled her eyes because she’d assumed that kind of chivalry was an urban legend and because she could pay for her own damn drink, but the gesture had stuck with her. A good first impression made better because he oozed small-town naiveté. It was a novelty in a city where most had an endgame in mind. Steve was someone who really was that nice and un-jaded.

He hadn’t even negotiated on the price, just repeated that he was anxious to move in. It felt right and she’d had her roommate by the end of the week. Not really longer than an hour or so to even get settled because all he had were some suitcases and a box or two of books, (remedied later, she noted by the addition of a desk and more paintbrushes and buckets and notebooks than she’d thought anyone could ever use.)

At first, they kept to themselves.

He’d underestimated Southern California traffic and often came home with a weary expression and nothing more than surface conversation before retreating to his room. Which was fine by Natasha, as that really had been all she was looking for in the first place. She didn’t really see him or know much about him during the first month, other than that he sometimes used a cologne that reminded her of the sea or that he liked to keep jars of peanut butter in the cupboard. She’d noticed him grabbing one and a spoon a few times when she was sitting in the living room grading tests.

“You eat more than peanut butter, right?” she asked once, when she was standing in her kitchen pulling salmon out of her grocery bag. It had been a lazy Saturday, one in which they were randomly both home, and she’d caught him when he was on his way back from a run.

“Occasionally,” he smiled guiltily. Her eyes flickered to the curve of his pecs against his shirt, something she really couldn’t help noticing because he’d come in sweaty for crissakes, and then the peek of his arms and the tightness of his shoulders. It surprised her, caught her a little off guard, how built he was. An extra layer to who he was that she mentally filed away. A pleasant surprise if anything, because it showed that he wasn’t just the quiet artist who she never saw.

She didn’t want to stare, because that was just rude, so she diverted her attention back to her fish. But something about it made her curious. How much didn’t she know? He seemed so legit, but she really didn’t know how different he was from any other Craigslist creeper. Inviting him to join her for dinner was only logical.

A logical slippery-slope. He’d agreed and then it became a thing. Saturday dinner with her roommate, in which they traded turns cooking, she learned that he was partial to Italian food, and they discovered a mutual interest in bad action movies.

“So you know all of the words to _Die Hard_ but you’ve never seen a Bond film?” she remembered asking him over pizza and beer.

“Not unless you count the one that just came out, but I thought it was kind of boring,” he shrugged, his mouth turning up playfully. She knew that he knew he was pushing her buttons but she took the bait anyway.

“No. Unacceptable, Steve,” Natasha slammed her beer on the coffee table. “Just unacceptable.”

“Why? I always thought they were kind of overrated, honestly,” he said with a straight face, enough to make her blood boil because she’d grown up as the only girl in between a single father and a younger brother, and they’d learned English on Bond. Calling the spy who’d taught her the value of a good martini and holding back instead of lashing out in anger boring? That was sacrilege.

“So you have no opinion… You’ve missed so much, Steve. _Timothy Dalton_. You’ve missed _Timothy Dalton._ ”

“You say this like it means something,” he’d laughed.

“Oh Steve,” Natasha lowered her voice with intention. “I don’t know if Bond was as big for all Russians but in my house, this would just not be ok. If you are going to live here, we have to fix this.”

They’d started that night with _Octopussy_ , cheesy circus dialogue and all. Natasha tried not to jump in her seat when the film began, hiding her energy in the throw pillow she clutched against her chest. He made one quip about the title character’s motivations but she sent him a warning look and he agreed to hold commentary until he’d seen a few movies and could fairly form any conclusions.

“It wasn’t so bad,” he’d conceded at the end. “What are we watching next week?”

Before she knew it, Natasha was swept up in something utterly social. Saturday evenings with Steve. Dinner and Bond. By the time they’d arrived at _License to Kill_ , he was suggesting they get a grill. By the time they’d jumped to _The World is Not Enough_ , he was asking her about Russia and she was laughing at his stories of sneaking into movie theaters in Brooklyn as a kid.

It was new and exciting, having something to look forward to, and she wondered if Steve needed the companionship as much as she realized she did. As it was, Natasha was only extroverted when it was absolutely necessary, something she blamed on her childhood immigration story and the difficulty she’d had in making friends. Between her accent and her father’s penchant for dressing her in long button-up sweaters and ruffles when everyone else was wearing jeans and spaghetti straps, she’d been an easy target until she’d decided to fuck everyone and stop caring.

Which meant that she sucked at “keeping in touch”, _(a pro)._

And that her closest friends were colleagues that she associated with from 9-5, ( _a pro_ _unless she was sitting in her pajamas by herself on a Friday night eating ice cream out of the carton, in which case she had enough self-awareness to recognize her limitations_ ).

“I can’t understand why these movies mean so much to you,” he’d mused, sitting next to her on the couch as the credits rolled. “I mean their great but…”

“I don’t know,” she sighed and played with a bracelet she’d been wearing. “My mom died, in Russia. It’s one reason why my dad brought us out here. And I think they were a way for us to stay close. We didn’t talk otherwise.”

He was silent when she’d confessed it, and that had been nice because it had given her just enough to think back on how precious her memories of her father and brother were. Vivid flashbacks to eating TV dinners and listening to Dad talk about how their mom had been even prettier than the prettiest Russian Bond girls. Natasha always felt a little guilty for her brother, Alexi, because he was born the night their mom died and would never be able to remember. Natasha could only remember that her mother had the same red hair she had, and that she’d worn it long. One of the reasons Natasha sometimes felt tinges of regret when she got haircuts.

She must have been wearing the nostalgia on her face because he’d touched her shoulder, his own expression one of sincerity and somberness. “Hey, my dad died when I was in Kindergarten. I know what it’s like to grow up like that.”

The disclosure made her uncomfortable, because she could count in seconds how long it would take him to say how sorry he was or some of the same schmaltz she’d heard so many times. _Motherless daughters. You must feel the loss every single day._

So Natasha shook her head and pulled her hair into a ponytail before reaching for the remote to turn the TV off.

“So, I’m going to bed. Same time, next week?”

There’d been a hint of disappointment, a small frown that she’d brushed off because she didn’t have room to babysit his feelings, not then. After all, they could be casual friends watching movies but at the end of the day, all that mattered was their professional agreement to the landlord on the first of each month.

Eventually though, those kinds of conversations wheedled their way in. Discussions whenever they were both home that started off with how bad the weather was and ended with Steve confiding in his uncertainty about whether or not he was any good and her convincing him via her own stick figure sketches that his portraits and landscapes were masterpieces. Or just talking. Talking in ways Natasha hadn’t ever talked. About movies and music and how times had changed for them both. Little talks that sewed seeds in her heart whether she liked it or not.

***

“Who is he?”

Natasha looked up from the stack of ham sandwiches that she’d been making with her coworkers, who were definitely gaping as Steve rushed into their apartment, still in his gym clothes _God bless him_ , but this time carrying a white canvas that looked tall enough to give him a run for his money.

“Steve. Roommate. Maria, I told you about him, remember?” she rolled her eyes and grabbed the mayonnaise jar. The community college was small enough to set up a community sack lunch outreach program for a nearby shelter, and it was the language department’s turn. The only reason Natasha would ever have even considered inviting Maria Hill and Sharon Carter over at all, because she’d kept her friendships with the other professors at a surface level. Maria could be discrete in her ogling, and Sharon hadn’t said a word, but the fact that they were looking at all irritated Natasha more than she wanted to admit.

“Is he… are you guys friendly?” Sharon whispered as she started stuffing their sandwiches in plastic baggies and stacking them neatly in a box on the countertop. There was a hint of desperation in the German professor’s voice, something that made Natasha cringe, because she knew Sharon had just gotten out of a bad relationship with a stoner who’d had a love affair with her couch. It made sense that she’d be looking for someone to spend time with, and it was true that Steve wasn’t the perpetual adolescent the leggy blonde usually went for.

“I can’t tell what I’d want to do first, take a bite out of his ass or sit on that face,” Maria hissed a second later, after he’d stopped in the kitchen for a bottle of water and a quick wave. Natasha was relieved he hadn’t stuck around, that he’d retreated to his room quick. She wasn’t bothered, _per se_ , though she couldn’t quite see Maria ever dating Steve, if only because Maria never dated anyone. But the comments had hit a nerve.

The truth was that she’d had thoughts about the same things.

 _It’s not a big deal,_ she’d whispered to herself later that night, even as she tried very hard not to listen to see if she could hear him in the room next door. He was usually quiet, except for the occasional cough or a thump when he was up late painting. Every once in a while, she might hear soft music but she’d often forgotten he was even there. Until she was imagining the girls fawning over him. Not that she’d ever even seen either of them fawn, but then she couldn’t help it. Sharon offering him a water bottle, her eyes adoring. Maria running her fingers through his messy cropped hair.

And then it was just a cruel snowball of self-torture because she could so easily visualize the three of them trading kisses and grunts.

She could imagine Sharon biting and nuzzling his neck, one of those arms around her waist while the other one pawed at Maria, who seemed all too content to be licking and sucking his face off. In her mind, his blue eyes were scrunched shut as they giggled and squirmed around him, as Maria whispered in his ear about how wet she was, as Sharon’s fingers reached under his shirt to dance along the trail that Natasha just knew led from his collarbone to well-below his belt line.

It didn’t help that when he opened his eyes, it was if he was looking at her. _This is absurd_ , she told herself even as she could feel her body tense, because she was absolutely and fully aware that she was picturing Steve, her innocent East Coast farmboy roommate, in the arms of her colleagues, Wearing that same smirk he’d always given her, only now with an underlying layer of wickedness.

 _It's probably normal_ , she reasoned, when she reached inside the drawer to her nightstand for her vibrator, _to think about men you are acquainted with in sexual positions_.

 _It means nothing_ , she decided, even as she was slipping her hand under her cotton pajama bottoms, even as she was hugging herself against a pillow because the last thing she needed was for the whole apartment to hear the soft buzzing of the bullet as she pushed it against her clit. _You never used to worry about making noise before_ , she scolded herself.

_Yes, but that was before I was picturing Steve._

And Steve's fingers, the ones she'd seen so many times chopping vegetables or sketching something at their kitchen table.

Or his lips, not kissing a beer bottle or in between his teeth while he watched a tense scene on TV. No, those pink lips were focused on her cunt, as though they belonged there, while fingers pulled her expertly apart.

"Fuck," she hissed into her pillow. Even if it was only a fantasy, she could feel his breath hot on the inside of her thighs. And for once, even though she knew how to get off in record time, especially with the dial turned up to high, she found herself pulling back, wanting to postpone and prolong the visual for as long as possible.

She blamed Maria and Sharon for even making her think about him in that way. She didn't really know if he liked women. But the image of his eyes looking up at her as he ran his tongue up and down and all around like a man on a mission, like someone who definitely knew what he was doing, persisted and she didn't even care.

Twisting so that she was on her stomach, Natasha whispered and cursed for what felt like a thousand times, grinding the length of her vibrator along her pussy, slick and quivering in time with her breath, and just enough frustration because it _felt_ real enough, Steve mumbling how wet and good she was, Steve licking and sucking and slurping and _fucking winking_ at her.

She hoped he wasn't able to hear, because she knew he was a thin wall away, probably drawing or doing pushups or whatever it was that he did, ( _she actually didn't know_ ), when she came, his name clear on her lips even though she was using her pillow as a muffle.

She thought about his possible singleness again as she was rinsing things and splashing cold water on her face. If he was single and unattached, it was one less obstacle toward the delusional and inappropriate fantasy of initiating something more than Bond night. Something Natasha’s life was already too complicated to handle. In which case, it would only be neighborly to give him Sharon's number, (with reservations about Maria, who she figured would eat him alive).

Sharon was actually a good fit. Smart, funny, and available.

The thought of Steve with anyone seemed foreign and wrong, but Natasha couldn’t find a good reason for why, except that she'd never pictured him in a romantic capacity. It couldn't be because she had just finished jerking off to visuals of his mouth, or because Saturday movie night had become so important that she started anticipating it on Sunday.

When she ran into him on her way to school, he hadn't given any indications that he knew what she’d been up to only the night before. No smirking or knowing glances, just a nod as he filled up his travel mug with coffee for his own commute.

"Hey, Steve, before I forget," she took a deep breath and caught his eye. "You're single, right?"

"Single?" he asked, a dumb look on his face as if she'd asked him something ridiculous like his social security number and blood type.

"Single. As in dating. Boys, girls..."

And then he was literally blushing, his cheeks pulled so tight around his smile that it looked painful.

"Natasha... Why? You wanna..."

"I'm asking for a friend," she interrupted, self-conscious because she'd probably crossed the line into a part of his personal life that she didn't really have any right to knowledge about. The last thing she needed was him thinking she was hitting on him like a brazen and desperate woman who did things like masturbating while thinking of her roommate...

He coughed and she steered herself back to the topic at hand. She was a grown woman with boundaries, after all.

"A friend?" he repeated, looking down. Christ, she'd embarrassed him.

"Yeah, a professor in my department. Female. But if you aren't interested..."

"No! Thanks, actually. Pass me her number. I know I need to get out and be more social," he asserted, his tone firm and convincing. She nodded, relieved to solve at least _that_ problem.

_Single. Likes women. Game for dating Fraulein Carter from work._

_***_

What made it worse was that he followed through, true to his word. She found out the hard way, when Sharon was knocking on her office door, giddy like a teenager at a boy band concert, with her arms around Natasha before Natasha even had the chance to speak.

“Thank you so much!” she gushed, something that made Natasha’s skin crawl.

She was happy. Sharon was her friend, after all, but she’d secretly prayed Steve would accidentally lose Sharon’s number or chicken out. An actual date was more than she’d mentally prepared herself for.

“What happened,” she smiled through gritted teeth.

“Steve. He texted me and we went out last night. Natasha, _wow_. Really. I’m still pinching myself,” Sharon actually _squealed._

‘That good?” She raised an eyebrow and bit the inside of her cheek.

“Amazing. We’re going out again tomorrow. It’s exactly what I needed.”

Natasha didn’t know how to respond, except with a supportive pat on her friend’s back, because she’d pointed Steve in Sharon’s direction in the first place. It was ideal. As long as he came through with his end of their expenses, his personal life (and Sharon’s, honestly), were none of her business.

It was unfair of her to feel disappointment at seeing Sharon randomly on her couch cuddled against Steve as they channel-surfed. She had no right to groan and stab the air with imaginary knives every time she heard Sharon’s high-pitched laugh coming from Steve’s room. Or any really good reason to feel inwardly bitter when she saw that he interrupted their movie night to hide in his room so that he could text her.

She’d even gracefully accepted the suddenly frequent cancellations of said-movie night. Steve hadn’t even been living with her a year, it wasn’t like James Bond was some kind of firm and unbreakable tradition.

Though she did grant herself a moment of weakness when Sharon invited herself over, only because Steve had made a commitment to _Goldeneye._ He’d actually cornered her in the kitchen the day before to say he’d be there.

“Really. I’ve missed it,” he asserted, earnest and apologetic even though she’d scoffed.

“Steve, it’s not a big deal, really. If I was dating right now, I’d be canceling Saturday night too,” she said even as she was inwardly jumping up and down because he’d remembered and because maybe it had actually _mattered._

“We should be at _Goldeneye_ , right?” he pushed. “I want to see it. We have to finish what we’ve started, Natasha.”

It was Natasha’s turn to cook and she knew he liked her chicken parmesan, even picking up a couple of artichokes to add. And preparing dinner while listening to Motown, knowing that their Sharon-induced hiatus was nearing an end, she was actually excited.

She probably smiled a little too wide when he came home. She’d just put the chicken in the oven, the house smelled like garlic, and things were exactly how she wanted them.

Any bounce in her step deflated when she caught the long blonde hair trailing behind him.

“Hey,” she said slowly, carefully. “Dinner will be ready in about thirty.”

“It smells amazing,” Sharon sidled over beside her, her face pink as though she’d been jogging alongside him.

Natasha couldn’t admit defeat if there wasn’t really a battle to begin with. So she sighed and handed her friend a glass of the white she’d been keeping in the fridge, choosing to pretend instead. To care about Sharon and Steve’s debate over the validity of eating organic food, to care about their discussion of the farmer’s market she was convinced he needed to visit with her, to give a flying fuck about whether or not the weather would be good enough to take a weekend trip to San Diego because Sharon was appalled that Steve had never been to the Gaslamp District.

She had Steve cue up the movie. She’d seen it enough times before anyway, to know the previews and opening music montage.

Natasha didn’t even know what she was doing until she was in her bathroom with the door locked and her head against the door, her veins buzzing with frustration and anger that Sharon had interrupted _their_ plans. That Steve had made such a big deal about _their_ movie night and then let Sharon maneuver in, without saying anything. He knew it was something sacred.

It hurt that she considered it sacred. She whimpered into her fist because at the end of the day, she had to be angry with herself as much as anyone. She’d let something as stupid as hanging out with her roommate become so important that she couldn’t even stand to be in the same room as either of them.

 _This is ridiculous_ , she decided. _It_ _’_ _s just Bond. It_ _’_ _s just Steve._

She rationalized that she was acting like a toddler. Jealous not because of Sharon was dating Steve, but because anyone she knew was dating at all. She hadn’t had a boyfriend in almost two years. Hell, she hadn’t had _sex_ in almost two years.

It wasn’t Steve that she wanted. It was being with someone. The comfort of being in someone’s arms, having someone to talk to. Having a relationship with another human being, batteries not included.

Natasha inhaled and opened the bathroom door with renewed insight. She figured she should probably thank Sharon for inadvertently pointing out a part of her life that she had power to work on.

Attachment. Intimacy. Romance. These were things she could fix.

***

The Cinco de Mayo party had been his idea, something he brought up a few nights later, when he'd shuffled inside, his shirt wrinkled after what she figured had been a long day at work.

"Yeah, sure," she'd agreed after he explained how it really was the perfect weather for a barbecue, something he remembered doing a lot with friends back home. Natasha liked the idea of sharing their home together, an unconscious fuck you to Sharon, because it really was their home. Steve’s paintings hung from just about every wall and the bookshelves in the living room had become his as much as hers: Tolstoy and The Bond DVDs right next to the annals of Yankee Baseball history. Hell, it was his copy of the _World History of Art_ on the coffee table. Whether she liked it or not, he lived there not just as a roommate who paid the bills. Anyone visiting would feel his fingerprints on the fabric of their home.

And throwing a party only made sense, because it was his home. Of course he would want to invite coworkers over. She had friends (well, she had Maria), and a warm night drinking beer on the patio seemed absolutely right.

Natasha should have seen it for the trainwreck it was. She could bullshit herself for only so long, and then she was hopelessly fucked. Literally bleeding out as the man she loved pressed his lips to Sharon Fucking Carter's perfect red mouth.

She was grateful at least that Cinco de Mayo had been bastardized into an unapologetic excuse for Americans to get sloshed. Even though she paced herself, tequila made watching them palatable. Not that they were even that bad, nothing that two people who were exclusively dating wouldn’t be socially expected to do. But that seed of knowledge that she felt something for him, that she wanted him, and that she would never be able to act on it, was the killer.

“That was fun,” he sighed as he brought in the different plates and grill parts from outside to be washed. She nodded cooly, holding her tongue as she collected cups and empty bottles in a white trash bag. Sharon had, to Natasha’s surprise, decided to go home. Something about waking up early the next day. And then the only thing balancing out Natasha’s inward moans was the sound of someone singing about love on Pandora. Of course.

“You feeling ok? How’s your hand?” he stopped next to her, tongs in one hand and a plate of leftover tomato slices on the other.

“Fine. Tired,” she shrugged, only partially lying.

And then he was asking if she was sure, and if she needed anything for her hand, and she couldn’t even look at him because all she wanted to do was yell out how she really felt, how he made her weak in the knees, how she loved sharing her space with him, how she had told him things she’d never told anyone else about. How miserable he made her just by being so nice and funny and considerate.

Steve stood in front of her, hands full and a look of expectation, like he knew something or was waiting for her to say _it_ instead of holding back.

 _I_ _’_ _m in love with you._ She couldn’t help send him telepathic messages she knew he would never receive.

“Natasha…” he started, his voice a whisper.

“I think things went well. We can do this again,” she interrupted, looking down. “Anyway, I think I’m going to take my war injury to bed.”

Steve didn’t push, only nodded and sighed, stepping away to put things in the kitchen.

***

Natasha spent the rest of May and June doing whatever she could to avoid him. The easiest defense, even if it was chickenshit, meant doing work at her office that she usually did at home, and it meant hanging out with Maria for girl’s nights more than she was used to. Calling it self-preservation made it sound less cowardly. The right thing to do, for her and for Steve.

They talked to exchange information about the bills or when she sent texts to tell him she was also unavailable for dinner on Saturdays. Occasionally she’d see him on her way to work but it was easy to blame her hurry on finals at school.

 _Sorry, I can_ _’_ _t talk. Students are extra needy during finals_ , she’d say, not even looking at him to give him the chance to call her out.

And just when she thought she was over it, he’d do something like send her text messages with random Bond quotes. Pictures of dogs dressed like clowns named Roger Moore.

Little things that made her weep inside, because the only appropriate response was a smiley face or a quick “thanks.”

Her _coup de grace_ was in late-June, when she and Maria let a few guys at the bar buy them Jägerbombs. A big mistake for someone who could usually drink everyone else under the table. Natasha came home well after midnight and couldn’t even put her key in the door, and then Steve was standing in front of her with a tired and confused look on his face.

“Natasha, how much did you drink?” he cursed as he let her in.

“Not enough,” she slurred, opening the fridge to see if she could find some water because she was suddenly parched.

“Steve? Is that Natasha?”

Natasha whimpered, resting her head on the cool of the freezer door. “Fuck me, Steve. Is she always here?”

“Who? Sharon?” he asked as he handed her a glass of water.

“Yeah. M’sorry Steve. I’m just tired of seeing her face. Does she ever leave you alone?”

He coughed and looked over his shoulder, as if checking to make sure that his girlfriend wasn’t listening.

“Natasha, I didn’t know she was a problem…”

“No. She’s not a problem!” Natasha waved her hand, hoping she wasn’t as loud in reality as she was in her head. “No, that’s not what I meant.”

She didn’t know what she wanted to communicate, except that she was feeling filterless and brave. How could she tell him that she’d spent so many nights wishing he would knock on her door and enter her space? How could she tell him that she’d been using all the strength she had not to throw herself at him, and that she hated herself for it?

“Natasha, let’s take you to bed. I’m sure Sharon can help you if you need it,” He put a hand on her back.

She’d only leaned against him with innocent intentions. Slipping her arm around his waist even though she really could walk on her own, she hadn’t meant to push against him. But she was so hot. Surely he had to feel how warm her skin was. If she pushed him against the wall, would he be able to feel her? Maybe then he’d figure out what she’d been hiding all along. He really wasn’t so heavy, she mused, as she ran her hands along his torso, her leg finding place between his thighs.

“You have such a nice face, Steve,” she purred, looking into his eyes. “That’s what I meant…”

“Nat…” he opened his mouth to speak, “Natasha, you are so drunk right now.”

“Could be drunker…” she shrugged, dismissing the way he shook his head because he had his hands on her waist and this was what she’d wanted, after all.

“Natasha, let’s go get Sharon,” he protested.

But Steve didn’t move, the biggest mindfuck of all, because she couldn’t tell if it was a green light or not. Her body buzzed and all she wanted was to show him how important he was to her. Standing on her toes, Natasha gave him only one quick look before licking her lips and leaning forward to kiss him.

In her mind, it was the kiss she’d been dying to give him for months. She knew she tasted like licorice and booze, and that she was letting the jager make all of her decisions, but in the moment it didn’t seem fair to let Sharon get away with taking him. Not when Natasha loved him as much as she did. How could he not know?

In her mind, the kiss lasted forever. Long enough for her to lick his bottom lip and feel him grab the fabric of her jacket. He didn’t move away and she knew he was kissing her back, and it was everything she’d wanted and hoped it would be.

Until they heard someone cough behind them.

“Sharon,” he sputtered, his face flushed as his eyes focused on something behind her.

Something that sobered Natasha up faster than she would have liked.

“Fuck,” she whispered, pulling away, her eyes on the floor because the last thing she wanted to do was look over and see her _friend_ standing in the kitchen with her arms crossed across her chest and a look of confusion and anger.

“Oh hey, Natasha,” she heard Sharon say. “I guess you already know that you’re a cunt so what else is going on?”

Natasha nodded in agreement, increasing as much distance as she could between her and Steve. “I’m… really drunk right now. I’m so sorry. I’m going to bed…”

She waited for Sharon to walk over and slap her, something she certainly deserved, or to at least give her the good verbal assault she definitely deserved. That the blond did neither, instead disappearing into Steve’s room with a slam of his door, was worse.

“Steve…” she whispered, pained that she’d managed to fuck things up so classically.

“Fuck,” she heard him mutter. She hoped he would be at her side, asking her to process what had just happened. That he followed the curse with fast strides to his room hurt more, even though she knew she couldn’t really have expected anything different.

She carried her purse and self-loathing to her own room, listening for muffled voices next door and the subsequent slam of the front door that made her flinch. Sharon wasn’t stupid and Natasha couldn’t blame her. Calling Natasha a cunt was being too nice.

She fell asleep with a headache and an overwhelming sense of doom.

***

If they hadn’t really talked post-Cinco de Mayo, they stopped talking altogether after that night. Instead, Natasha waited for Steve to put his notice to relocate in. He had every right to move out, even without notice, and she began mentally preparing for the loss.

She thought again about moving out herself. It would only be fair, she figured, as she sat in her office and stared at her laptop screen. She hadn’t seen Sharon since that night, hadn’t had the chance to explain or apologize, and the silence was enough to have her wondering if she should pack up and find a new place to work and live. She figured she owed it to both of them to flee.

The grown-up thing to do, she recognized as the calendar flipped to July, would be to have a discussion with Steve. To assess what he wanted her to do, to figure out what would be the fairest way to pull out of everyone’s lives. Natasha debated on how to proceed, the pit in her stomach only heavier every time she thought about how to even start talking to Steve about what had happened. Part of the problem was just finding him. The only time they were even near each other seemed to be at night, when it would have been awkward and cruel. It was probably cowardice that she didn’t swallow her pride and knock on his door, though she rationalized that she was being considerate.

Natasha wouldn’t have chosen the first Saturday of the month to talk, least of all because it was Independence Day. One minute she was pouring herself a glass of juice, the next she was in full-on fight or flight because he was standing next to her reaching for his own cup.

“Hey,” she mumbled, not looking up because that would be the end of everything, and thankful that she at least had an excuse to be next to him.

He hummed in response and all she could do was nod in courtesy before taking her glass towards her room.

“You don’t have to leave,” he said, interrupting her moment of self-pity and stopping her in her tracks. “It’s your place more than mine.”

Natasha sighed and dared to turn around to look at him, something she hadn’t allowed herself in weeks. She hadn’t expected his eyes, open and pleading. Almost fucking apologetic.

“I know…” she deflected, because the last thing she wanted to do was act like there was anything wrong.

“What are you doing today?”

The question surprised her, because it didn’t really fit. She’d mentally prepared for a discussion on moving out or at least time for her to start apologizing, not an inquiry into her holiday plans.

“Nothing,” she shook her head. “I might do some errands but I… Don’t you have plans with Sharon or something? You guys should be going to the beach for fireworks or…”

“She’s busy,” Steve said quickly, “and if you aren’t doing anything… It would be nice to spend the day with a friend.”

It made her heart stop, the remote possibility that Steve was asking her if they could do something together. On a Saturday, no less, as if she hadn’t spent the past months avoiding him. As if she hadn’t kissed him, and he hadn’t kissed back. Natasha felt ambivalent, stuck between hating him for tossing out that lifeline, distracting her from all of her resolve, and falling for him all over again. Saying that she was wiling felt dangerous, a little like a trap because surely Sharon would walk in again even if they were just standing in the kitchen talking about the Fourth of July.

“It’s my birthday,” he explained, stopping her thoughts. “And it’s kind of depressing to spend it alone.”

Natasha looked down, her forehead creasing as she took in all of the information. She’d spent enough birthdays alone to understand how lonely it felt, but she was torn.

“Happy Birthday,” she answered dumbly. “I’m sorry I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t tell you,” Steve said. “But you can see why I don’t want to be alone today.”

“So what do you want then?” Natasha asked, setting her glass in the sink. She meant it as a question about his ideas for the day, but couldn’t help the subliminal question about what he wanted from her. That stupid kiss was still the elephant in the room, large and imposing, and she wondered if she was also asking it of herself. What did she want? Could she spend a day pretending that she cared about him only as a friend? How could she give him what he wanted without fucking things up even more than they already were?

“Dunno. I’d say drinks but maybe that’s not a good idea,” he said slowly. She winced when he said it but when she looked up she caught a small smirk, a signal that he was at least half-teasing.

“Fireworks on the beach,” she offered. “I wouldn’t mind treating you to dinner if you want.”

Which was how she found herself barefoot next to Steve Rogers watching the sun set on the Pacific, alongside other spectators who were waiting patiently for the American tradition of blowing things up. The marine layer had cooled the air down enough that the evening would have been perfect, except for the way her brain rode waves of angst that competed with the roar of water in front of them.

“Are we ever going to be able to be in the same room again without it being awkward?” he sighed as they sat on the ground.

Natasha’s body tensed and she distracted herself by burying her feet in the cold sand, by scanning the ground for broken shells. It was a conversation they needed to have. Her father hadn’t raised her to be so fearful, and she knew she’d dragged things on longer than was fair.

“I guess so… I mean, I kind of assumed you wouldn’t want to,” Natasha swallowed, meeting his eyes. “That you’d want some space, Steve.”

“I did,” he admitted, his honesty a tiny hammer to her heart. “But it’s not fair that we live like this…”

“I think I should move out,” she interrupted, not wanting him to continue. “It’s the least I can do for you and for Sharon.”

Natasha watched as he inhaled, his face serious and drawn tight. It wasn’t the way she would have liked for that detail to come out, but there it was.

“Natasha…” Steve picked up a stick to fiddle with. She waited for him to say that she was right, that it was a good idea.

“I’m sorry about that night,” she met his eyes. “Really, I was stupid and drunk and I had no right to interrupt you and Sharon and definitely no right to kiss you…”

“We broke up,” Steve said quickly, causing her heart to stop. She didn’t know how to respond. It would have felt like a lifeline if it wasn’t such an obvious indicator of how much damage she’d caused.

“Oh shit,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry, Steve.”

“It’s not… It wasn’t just because of you,” he snapped the stick in two. “She didn’t like where I work and we had a hard time with our schedules and it just didn’t fit. It was an easy decision for both of us. For me, at least.”

“Where you work?” Natasha repeated, unable to process why he was offering any explanations at all.

“Yeah, I never told you that it was for Adult Entertainment, did I? It's still a desk job, I'm just working on the digital media...” he squinted, his face flushed slightly. And Natasha wanted to laugh, because he looked ashamed even though it made perfect sense considering how much porn was produced in Southern California. Considering he was an adult and that he was working and that she’d only ever cared that he paid his half of the rent on time. If anything, she was impressed as she would have assumed he was working for a children’s company or for a video game developer. Natasha would never admit that she felt a sliver of satisfaction that Sharon had problems with his job.

“Steve, I’m sorry about you guys,” she repeated, sincerely, because he could deny it but she’d had some culpability.

“I’m over it,” he shrugged. “But you see why I needed a friend today.”

Natasha nodded and gave him a quick pat on the back, because he was asking for her to be a bro. She could be that for him, she decided with a swallow. It was the least she could give. She wanted to quip about how he was better off or how Sharon wasn’t right for him anyway, but she figured that it was too soon to be crossing those lines.

They sat in silence, people-watching as the sun went down, and Natasha decided it was as close to perfect as she’d get. And maybe, she reasoned, it was enough. Maybe sitting with Steve on the beach was symbolic enough of a peace-offering that they could be civil again. Not necessarily the level of closeness they’d had before, but maybe _enough_.

She felt her body relax with the boom and crackle of the first firecracker, a golden shooting star that lit up the sky and paved the way for a barrage of twinkling lights and colors. The crowd around them _ooed_ in appreciation, and Natasha decided to keep all of her attention focused on the way the light reflected on the water or the way that everything seemed so perfectly timed. She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed fireworks, how much it made her feel like a kid.

Natasha didn’t even look over to see if Steve was enjoying it as much as she was until she felt his fingers brush against hers over the sand. At first she figured he had just slipped, that the touch was casual or accidental, until he was folding his hand around hers with no indication that he wanted to move.

After that, any focus on the 4th of July was hopelessly diverted. She tried to breathe, to remain calm, but the fact that he was actively touching her was unnerving and distracting. It felt like a dream and she didn’t know what to do. To pull away or to stay and act natural. Natasha didn’t think Steve was the kind of guy to play mindgames. He knew she at least liked him enough to kiss him when she was drunk, and all she could think was _Jesus Christ, this firework show is taking forever._

At the end, he didn’t let go. When they stood up, she waited for him to say something, even if it was just to appreciate the show. Instead he was reaching out his hand in invitation, as if that was something that they _did_.

“Steve…” she hesitated, scanning his face. The air still smelled like gunpowder and she could hear tired kids crying and people talking about Sunday plans.

“Can I…?” he asked, his mouth turned up in that smile that made her shiver, and then he was pulling her close and gripping her hand against his chest.

“Can you what?” Natasha asked, disoriented and confused.

She didn’t expect the answer to be his lips brushing against hers, but she took it anyway. Closing her eyes, she let herself relax and imagine that everything was finally falling into place, that even if it meant mistakes and regret later, the taste of sea salt on his lips and the feel of his body warm against her was worth it.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked after he’d already pulled back, looking simultaneously smug and sheepish at once.

“Only if you do it again,” Natasha said before she could regret it. She watched as he flushed, as he nodded and swallowed, before putting one of his gloriously big hands on the back of her neck to bring her in again.

 _Who taught him to kiss?_ She thought about this as his lips crashed against hers. Not that she wanted to know the answer, but she wouldn’t have expected him to be so good at it. The quiet guy who she’d assumed was so innocent, giving her more surprises than she thought she could bear.

“Let’s go home?” he whispered into her ear, causing her to shiver. All she could do was nod and let him lead the way.

On the short walk back to their place, even with her hand in his, Natasha mentally rehearsed how the evening could possibly finish. It had to mean something that he hadn’t let go and in fact that he had initiated the whole thing, but she hesitated to believe it.

“Natasha, stop thinking,” he grunted at their doorstep.

“About?” she feigned innocence, wondering if he could sense how much she wanted him. All of him. Could he tell that those kisses had lit the fuse for all of the ache she’d been trying to stifle? Could he tell that even the memory of how his tongue had traced her lips was enough that she was nearly crying out, her breath uneven because she could hardly stand the heat between her legs? She felt like she was sixteen again, like this was some stupid crush and her feelings were all over her face.

He didn’t answer the question until the door was opened and then the answer was as clear as the way he looked at her, his own breathing harder than normal, his eyes focused and hungry.

“Oh,” she breathed, unable to say much more because he was kissing her again, this time without the self-consciousness of doing so in public. This time with urgency and need and she would never have thought he could be so demanding until she was gasping for air and he was taking advantage of the opportunity to brush his tongue against hers. “ _Oh_ ”, she repeated again because it was the only thing she had enough mental capacity to say.

“Now I’m the one who should be sorry,” he said after he’d pulled back, far enough that he was standing against the wall and arm’s length away.

“What?” she shook her head, confused. “Steve, that doesn’t even make sense.”

“I just don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage or something.”

“Steve,” she panted. “Seriously?”

“I don’t want to push you away. It’s not that it’s my birthday or because of Sharon,” he looked down.”I mean, I really like you…”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Natasha groaned, feeling her heart stop. “ _Really?_ I never thought you’d be the kind of guy to fuck with a girl’s emotions like this…”

“What?” he interrupted, eyes incredulous. “Fucking with your emotions? Natasha, I’m in love with you. I don’t want to ruin what little we have by making you think I only want you right now because of Sharon…”

Natasha wondered if she’d misheard, only because the words that had come out of his mouth didn’t even make sense.

“You’re in love with me?”

He ran his fingers through his hair and took a step forward. “I’m sorry. I didn’t… I know you aren’t and I know it makes me look like a complete asshole. I mean, how fucking creepy would I be to be in love with my roommate? And I tried not to be. Fuck, it’s why I went out with Sharon in the first place, because I wanted to keep things right between you and me.”

He stopped talking only because Natasha was laughing, hard enough that she knew tears were threatening to spill out of the corner of her eyes. She didn’t know what was funnier, that he’d just confessed his love for her or that the entire ordeal could have been solved months earlier if she’d just been honest.

“You’re laughing?” he frowned.

“Steve,” she moved in front of him. “Why do you think I even suggested you go out in the first place? Why do you think I kissed you that night?”

“Because…” he shrugged weakly.

“Because I’m _already_ that creepy girl in love with her roommate,” she sighed. “Because I love you and want you and didn’t want to fuck things up either.”

“Natasha,” he brushed the stray strands of hair that had fallen in front of her eyes away, his expression tentative and uncertain. Like he was still nervous even though he’d only minutes earlier kissed her to the point that her lips were still vibrating. Hell, to the point that his lips looked like he’d just finished eating a cherry popsicle. “How do we fix this?”

“Do you mean like talk? Because we can talk,” she explained calmly. She watched as he nodded, his eyes darting all over the place as if he was thinking over the suggestion.

“Or you can fuck me into the floor, because it’s the only thing I can personally concentrate on right now.”

 _Go bold or go home,_ she decided as she inhaled and met his eye, not sure what to expect but thankful that he hadn’t blanched or brushed her off in any way _._ The look in his eyes as the seconds passed and her words filled the air nearly had her moaning, and she didn’t think she’d ever seen him look so hungry, but there they were. Still at a standstill.

“I could,” he agreed, a rasp in his voice that had her raising an eyebrow in delight.

“You’d better,” she challenged.

And then Steve was stepping into her space again and it was almost as though they hadn’t stopped kissing for the honest disclosure about how they both felt, except that this time, it wasn’t just desire driving things forward. When Natasha slid her tongue into his mouth, he actually _groaned_ and damned if _that_ wasn’t hotter than hell. She was sure he could feel her heart racing, not that she cared, because she was still stuck on how it was all happening. It felt like a dream, except that he’d put his hands on her ass and was almost lifting her into him. She could feel that he was hard, could feel that he wanted her, and it was definitely and with one-hundred percent certainty, real.

They made it as far as her bedroom door and then he had her against the frame, his mouth hot on her throat, hands buried in her hair. Natasha could barely think, except to wonder if it was possible to orgasm just from the way he nipped at her skin or traced her nape with his thumb.

“You wanna come in?” she teased, fumbling with the doorknob. He stopped kissing her long enough to look her in the eye and put his hand over hers as she turned the handle.

“Yes,” he said with intention and focus, wiping away any doubt that she had over whether or not he was interested in more.

Natasha grabbed his hand and led him through the threshold, taking in a deep breath because even sharing the same space, she hadn’t ever really let him in. A part of her felt self-conscious, as though there was anything to worry about in her sparsely decorated room. It wasn’t like she’d left her clothes and underwear strewn all over the place, and even if she had, she didn’t think he would necessarily mind. She felt like a highschool virgin all over again, as if her father would come barging in at any time because she was letting a boy into her room.

And then things curiously slowed down and it was as though he was deferring to her, letting her set the pace for their kisses. It was Natasha who was guiding the hand she’d been holding to her breast, because she needed him to touch her and he needed the permission before doing so. He only moved it so that she could pull her shirt off, and _God, even that felt perfect._

“Off,” she breathed as tugged at his jeans. “Now.”

Steve laughed gently but obeyed and even though it made her giggle a little too, if only because of the sight of boxer briefs and long legs that didn’t disappoint, any teasing ended after she’d caught sight of the outline to his cock, a bulge that she knew could only mean good things.

“Holy…” Natasha bit her lip as she ran a finger along his waistband, noting the sharp intake of his breath as she let her finger dip inside. It was like Christmas morning, stripping him bare and letting her eyes widen at what she’d been missing. All that time imagining his tongue, which had definitely been impressive in her mouth, when in the end, it was his cock that was the goddamn work of art.

“Steve…” she pulled him so that she was sitting and could examine his length at eye-level, not bothered at all that he’d rested a hand on her shoulder for support. “Do you know…?”

“Natasha, fuck…” he buckled his knees and she figured he was a shade above begging, because there he was, big enough that she figured she wouldn’t be able to walk the next day and all she wanted to do was see if he tasted as good as he looked, which in and of itself was a revelation because sucking cock had never been her favorite thing to do…

“I’m sorry, Steve,” she shook her head and looked up. “Am I being selfish right now? Because I could stop …”

Not that she really gave him much choice to answer, and not that he really could have said anything anyway. Because when he nodded and pulled his own shirt off, revealing what his arms had only hinted at, she was pretty sure she’d won the lottery and then even she couldn’t have been held responsible because her mouth had a mind of its own. She figured as he shivered while her tongue traced the glorious lines of his chest down to his hipbones that maybe he preemptively deserved it, if he was as good as she’d always imagined.

“If you didn’t love me before, you will by the time I’m done,” she looked up saucily, causing him to groan again, a sound she was growing to crave more and more. Fingers wrapped tightly around him, all she could do was sigh, her pussy slick through her own pants at the thought of him inside her.

Gathering as much as saliva as she could, Natasha looked up and licked, doing what she could to pay attention to every curve and vein before taking him in, moaning a little as her mouth stretched around his girth. She hadn’t been a fan, which suddenly didn’t even make sense, because the way he mumbled her name and squeezed her shoulder like he was dying was enough to make her a convert.

She would have gone on for as long as he needed, long past the aching jaw and swollen lips, because he was so damned appreciative, eyes glassy and mouth slackjawed as she licked and sucked, jumping when she changed tactics or let out moans of her own. But Natasha _was_ selfish, and aching and wet, and there was plenty of time for seeing that little act through. Wiping her mouth of the precome and spit, Natasha leaned back onto the bed and worked on the button to her jeans, figuring that she’d spontaneously combust if someone ( _i.e._ _Steve_ ) didn’t satisfy her very soon.

He bent down and kissed her before helping to slide her pants and underwear down, before saying his own curses at the sight of the red curls that pointed to her own need.

“Condoms. Drawer,” she panted, slipping a hand between her legs. Steve nodded and opened her drawer, mercifully bypassing or at least ignoring the vibrator that had been her faithful support system for so long to pull out the foil packet.

When the bed dipped only slightly and he was between her legs, again looking into her eyes as if he couldn’t really believe they were happening either, Natasha couldn’t help the deep breath of anticipation. Not just for the sex, but for the culmination of so much stress and worry and doubt.

“Hey,” Steve touched her lips, forcing her to meet his eyes. “I love you, remember?”

There it was again, the confirmation that he cared and wanted her and that this decision to be together wouldn’t end in disaster. It was like he was reading her mind, and reading that she didn’t want to do anything to hurt him.

“I love you too,” she said as clearly as she could, not wanting him to have any second thoughts when he woke up the next morning.

He smiled, and she didn’t want to push the blond hair that had fallen in between his eyes away, because he looked so like that kid from who-knew-where that she’d fallen in love with, and it made her laugh and love him even more, if only because it was amazing how someone could look so innocent even while lining his cock up against her and…

Natasha wouldn’t normally say she believed in any kind of higher power, but then he was inside her and she was sure something divine had to have created that kind of bliss and fucking _completion_ , just by the way he filled her and the way her walls adjusted and quivered around him.

“Ssss…Slowww…” she hissed, gripping his shoulders, not sure if it was the fact that it had been so long or if he really was as big as he felt.

“Amazing. You feel…perfect,” he leaned down to kiss her softly. And God bless him, his lips were enough of a distraction against how big he was, that she didn’t mind when he started moving his hips, began thrusting gently into her. Even though it had started off overwhelming and even though she’d already seen enough stars just getting started, she wanted more and couldn’t help doing whatever she could to tell him as much. Wrapping her legs around his waist, as if that might make him only go in deeper and even harder, Natasha found herself holding in screams and then only because a small part of her mind remembered that they had neighbors.

“ _HolyfuckingChrist_ ,” she whimpered between gritted teeth, not capable of much more than slurs and things that probably didn’t make much sense. “ _HolyfuckingSteve_ _…_ _oh_ _…_ _harder_ _…_ ”

Was she singing those commands? She didn’t even know. All she knew was that he hadn’t stopped kissing her, lips on her shoulder and along an arm even as he thrust, and then he was hooking her legs under his own arms and she was sure he’d split her wide open, and that this was how she would die, and that she’d die the happiest she’d ever been in her whole short fucking life. And did he even know that by lifting her ass just so, he’d hitting a spot she didn’t even know she had, something that made her eyes roll into the back of her head because _fuck the neighbors_ …

She registered his voice, telling her again how much he loved her, how perfect and beautiful she was, how much he loved just feeling her skin, and she knew just based on his grip and the way he moaned that he wasn’t far off either. It became important, like her vocation in life was suddenly to see him through, to feel him finish, almost as an unconscious way of proving that she loved him and that she’d do whatever it took to make him stay.

“I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve thought about this,” he mumbled into her skin, lacing his fingers through a hand that she had forgotten she even had, the one that had been clinging to her comforter for dear life. It was ridiculous because if he’d spent as long wanting something like this as she had, then how could they have postponed things for so damn long? She would have brought up the absurdity of it all except that she was solely capable of a steady stream of hisses and hums, as if that Master’s degree in Russian Linguistics and Culture meant nothing.

Because then she came undone, tears burning her eyes as her body took over and falling over the edge had never felt so fucking perfect and wonderful…

Her cunt quivered and clenched around him, like little aftershocks that made him moan into her ear, and then she had enough presence of mind to start fucking him back, to meet his thrusts with her hips as hard as she could because he still hadn’t finished and that was just not acceptable.

“Did you know that I’ve been thinking about you too?” she grunted in his ear, using her free hand to push into his ass.

“Fuck, Natasha, _fuck_ …” he stared at her, wide-eyed and awed as she licked her lips and cupped his backside.

“Did you know that I was in this room while you did whatever it is you do, fucking myself just at the thought of you…” she asked him, lifting her head up to kiss and bite his lips. “I figured you would have heard me moan your name as I fingered…”

She would have kept going but his mouth was muffling any further speech, and he was _ramming_ into her, enough to make her dizzy and then she didn’t even have to wonder if she’d be capable of coming again, if lightening could indeed strike twice because he had a fist in her hair and just the sound of him whispering her name was enough to set her off.

 _“_ _Natasha, Natasha, Natasha_ _…_ ” he moaned as he came, as though he was having his own religious experience. She felt high and beautiful and _powerful,_ wrapping her arms around him as he anchored himself back to Earth, dancing her fingers lazily along his back.

“Wow,” she said minutes later when they were laying on their backs and catching their breath, “I didn’t even take my bra off.”

He laughed and turned his head to look at her, “Yeah, well, I got distracted.”

“I’m not complaining, just impressed,” she grinned.

Steve reached over to kiss her shoulder. “Well, it’s not like I don’t have plans in mind for your tits, Natasha…”

“Ha,” she responded, stretching her arms over her head because she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so relaxed. “I’d like to be in the loop about all of your tit-related plans, Steve Rogers.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he gave a content sigh before leaning back on the bed.

She watched with sleepy eyes as he stared at the ceiling, only half-wondering what he was thinking about, and really more marveling that he was there, superseding her expectations and making the blood coursing through her veins feel hot and wonderful.

“Steve Rogers, born on the Fourth of July, works in porn…” she murmured, turning so that she could rest her cheek on his chest. “What else don’t I know?”

“You first,” he tickled her side gently. “Natasha Romanoff, crazy Bond fan and professor of Russian…”

“You mean like in addition to the fact that I once had purple hair?” she smirked, thinking about her freshmen year of college.

“Well, or the flag tattoo I have on my ass?” he shrugged.

“Liar,” she narrowed her eyes and sticked her tongue out.

“Never,” he responded, convincing her enough to make him roll over just so that she could double-check.

She huffed at the sight of bare skin, before resuming her place in his arms. “And fucking bad at it too.”

“Like you couldn’t picture it,” he laughed, kissing the top of her head.

“But I really did have purple hair once,” Natasha smiled, reaching for his hand, her mind wandering over all of the things she still wanted to know.

There was plenty of time, she figured, temporarily satisfied with the way she fit against him. And then she remembered how they’d started kissing in the first place and was looking up, her chin resting on his stomach.

“Happy Birthday,” she repeated, this time finishing the greeting with kisses from his navel to his lips.

“The happiest,” Steve promised.

She believed him then, but later even more so when Independence Day and Happy-Birthdays were more than tradition. And every year, even when she thought he might not say it, he did and with renewed meaning. Crying babies and insolent teenagers and countless losses aside, every “Happy Birthday” recalled the first but then melted in with the rest.

When asked, Natasha could hold up the scar on the palm of her hand and tell anyone about when she knew she’d fallen in love with Steve Rogers. But only he knew how close things had been, and how they almost weren’t.

 _“_ _The happiest._ _”_

He meant it each and every time.


End file.
